


drowning

by fairbanks



Series: goretober 2018 [6]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Goretober 2018, Grief, Trying to Cope, metaphorical bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 17:33:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16223954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairbanks/pseuds/fairbanks
Summary: Martin and Peter chat.





	drowning

  1. **drowning**



 

The nurses at this hospital are kind, kinder than Martin could have ever expected. Even when Martin was a scared child at his mother’s bedside for a sudden overnight stay the nurses were never so kind, smiling yes, but strained around the edges. Tired maybe, underpaid probably, one too many bad days stacked.

 

Of course someone (Elias?) was paying well for special care to make sure Jon was looked after. Money, as it turned out, made all the difference. Martin isn’t bitter, but he feels it still, feels it deep. (Maybe he’s bitter.)

 

Jon is very pale. That isn’t surprising, because Jon is a corpse more than patient, a medical marvel and connected to more machines than Martin cares to count. Jon is so pale all his scars are vivid against his skin, Jon is so washed out that the bandages look darker than he does in certain lights.

 

Jon is so very white he looks like he washed up on the shore, drowned but somehow not bloated and wet. When Martin falls asleep at the chair the nice nurses leave for him, the one with a blanket and pillow always tucked to the side, sometimes he dreams of pushing against Jon’s chest.  _ Jon, _ he says, pushing, tipping Jon’s head to the side, desperate to dislodge the ocean in his lungs.

 

Sometimes in those dreams Jon spews water, coughs and hacks briny gushes of liquid far darker than his pale skin all over the floor. Sometimes the water is wax, and sometimes the wax burns hot, liquid. Every time Jon doesn’t stir beside, and Martin is alone in the room. Martin is alone in the room when he wakes, hand wrapped around Jon’s cold fingers.

 

_ Come back come back come back, _ he begs, and Jon never does.

 

-

 

“Who’s taking care of your ship?” Martin asks Peter Lukas one day. Melanie doesn’t speak to him anymore and Basira is still taking time off. It’s only Martin in the Archives, really, Martin and the ringing silence that sometimes holds Peter. He never hears Peter coming, often forgets he’s there when he’s in the room.  _ Trick of the trade, _ Peter tells him, all genial smiles. Nothing in Peter Lukas ever reaches his eyes

 

“Trying to get rid of me?” asks Peter, sitting on the corner of Martin’s desk and flipping through a statement. “And here I thought we were getting along, sudden as the circumstances are.”

 

“I thought- well, I thought you wouldn’t want to get along,” Martin mutters, resisting the urge to take the file back. This man was his boss. This man was their hard earned reward for defeating Elias Bouchard.

 

_ Better the devil you know, _ his mother’s voice says, though he can’t recall her ever saying the phrase before.

 

Peter laughs, more a movement of his shoulders than a sound. “Been looking into my lot, have you? Tell me, Martin, what do you know about the Lukases?”

 

“It- um, they are- you worship loneliness?” Martin suddenly feels like he’s in school, ill-prepared for a sudden question pressed upon him. “Or the fear of being alone.”

 

_ It’s better to keep your mouth shut than state the obvious time and time again _ , says his mother.

 

“And you think that means I should stay in my tower and brood in the silence?”

 

“I think it means I expected you to leave me alone down here, mostly,” Martin answers, quieter now. 

 

“Ah, since you are rather lonely down here, aren’t you? No Archivist, no coworkers,” Peter nods and Martin bristles, wants to tell him not to talk about Jon. Everyone like him, everyone more monster than man says  _ Archivist. _ He’s Jon, he’ll always  _ be _ Jon. When he wakes up it will be Jon waking up. There is no other outcome, not now.

 

“Well?” The line of thought sends a shudder of irritation through Martin, a tired fight that leaves him feeling brittle and exhausted. “You’re… feeding off it, aren’t you? That’s what you do. So why bother with this?”

 

There’s a crinkle of amusement around Peter’s eyes. “When you have an argument in your head, who wins?”

 

Martin blinks. “What?”

 

“You bring up a point, say ‘I should do this,’ then put up whatever counterpoints there are. Sometimes it’s less an argument and more a voice telling you what a fool you are, you’ve been, etc. Do you win in the end? Or do they?”

 

For a moment Martin gapes, wonders if Peter can slip into his mind like Elias could. It sets his bones cold, a sudden  _ no no no not again _ against the knowledge Elias carved into his head. He pretends he doesn’t cry about it at night but he does, curled up like a child where no one can see. No one cares enough to notice dark circles under his eyes though, not anymore. Tim is dead, Sasha’s dead, Basira’s gone and Melanie hates him. 

 

(When he’s feeling particularly small he thinks  _ Jon would notice, Jon would care. _ No argument in his head bothers touching what he knows isn’t true)

 

“I- what does that have to do with anything?” Martin’s hackles rise uselessly. “What do you  _ want? _ ”

 

“What, Elias didn’t like getting a little philosophical from time to time? You should hear some of the nonsense he’s spouted at me over the years, a right pub philosopher when you get him in the mood,” Peter hops off the deck. He never wears suit jackets, just button ups with the slightest strain against broad shoulders. For someone so large he seems to take up so little space. “Let me give you this then- it doesn’t matter what I meant, yeah? In the end it just matters what you make of it, because all they are are words but you- you’re a universe in flesh.”

 

“P-pub philosophy, huh?” Martin sputters, unsure of how he’s supposed to feel other than confused and he’s so, so very tired of being confused. 

 

Peter laughs and leaves, and everything is very quiet again.

 

-

 

Lying in bed Martin thinks about silence. It’s always felt so physical to him, a crushing weight ringing loud in his ears, a fear born from years of silent dinners, silent evenings, silent company whenever his mother was by his side. He never thought of it before but he does now, he has to, the wound Elias gave him seeping into his thoughts.

 

_ Distraction, _ his mother tuts, and he can hear Peter laugh with it. Arguments, who won them, a load of nonsense to mull over in the silence of his room. He hasn’t recorded any poetry because that’s all he can offer it, silence.

 

“Better than what you typically manage,” he says in his mother’s tone, even if he never once showed her his pieces. “How did the web you weaved go, Martin? Is this what you wanted? Is this what anyone wanted?”

 

He rolls onto his back, lets the ringing silence fill his ears like rising water. He imagines going with Jon and the others, maybe he could have helped Tim, maybe he could have shielded Jon from the blast. Maybe he’d be lying there, drowning in his own blood, trying to tell a distraught Jon  _ no it’s alright it was worth it this is worth it. _ Maybe he could have done something worth a damn.

 

But heroic sacrifices were for heroes and dead men. Martin closes his eyes and tries to sleep.


End file.
